


Seeing Eye

by amberswansong, finesharp, WandererRiha



Category: Once Upon A Time - Fandom, Trinity Prime
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, OCs - Freeform, Other, Trinity Prime - Freeform, borrowing the universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-12 17:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12964485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberswansong/pseuds/amberswansong, https://archiveofourown.org/users/finesharp/pseuds/finesharp, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: Seers are a rare thing. You would think that a person who could see the future would be valued and protected; an important part of any community.You'd be wrong.There are, however, exceptions to every rule.





	1. Cottage in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> May as well say it right here right now, this is mostly OCs running around having adventures in the Once Upon a Time universe. Borrowing the geography and mechanics of that world. Canon characters may have incidental roles, but that's about it.
> 
> Hope you give the OCs a chance.
> 
> Marcus belongs to finesharp.  
> Alex belongs to amberswansong.  
> Thank you both for the many adventures. <3

_T’was a cottage in the wood_  
Where a man by the window stood  
Saw a rabbit hopping by, knocking at the door… 

 

The Future held nothing for him. It never did. One was always blind to one’s own fate. It was probably just as well. He would not have wanted to see this coming. The venture into town had gone as expected. He did not need an Inner Eye to tell him things probably wouldn’t end well- and they hadn’t. However, he hadn’t expected it to go _quite_ this badly.

Angry mobs were something he was used to at this point. Unfortunately, this had been one of the torch-and-pitchfork wielding varieties and he’d taken more than a few knocks before they’d chased him out of town and into the woods. Through branches and briars he stumbled blindly, unable to find a clear path in the mist and darkness. The Inner Eye might be good for looking ahead metaphysically, but was utterly useless when it came to physical objects right in front of his face. Stones and tree roots seemed to throw themselves into his path. Before too long he’d bloodied both knees and the heels of his hands, bitten his tongue as well as his cheek, and flattened his nose several times against more than one tree. These were lesser annoyances compared to the throbbing in his head from the blows he’d suffered earlier. Cold and wet that had nothing to do with the fog dripped down his face and into his collar. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, thirst closed his throat, every step made the earth wobble beneath his feet, but he kept moving. To stop would mean death by wolves or bears or some other predator. Darkness stretched on every side until he noticed a faint light glowing softly in the distance. It was his only beacon on this wretched night and so he stumbled towards it.

\--

Although the villagers called it “the Alchemist’s House”, such a term was being rather generous. Made of stone, daub, thatch, and whatever else was to hand, it more closely resembled the ancient huts used by the early people of the forest. It had been part of a grand estate once- an outbuilding for a sprawling manor house- but little enough remained of either. The Alchemist had rebuilt it for his own purposes. Strange lights lit its windows and colored smoke coiled from the crooked pipe of a chimney. Many secrets were said to be hidden behind the stout wooden door, and though the village children sometimes dared one another to knock upon it, none had ever seen it open.

The Alchemist was not unaccustomed to people intruding upon his solitude- admittedly one born more out of necessity than any actual dislike for his fellow man- but this noise seemed strange. For one, it was quite late, his hut utterly black where the anemic light of the rush lamp did not reach. Something was blundering around outside, crashing through the wet winter leaves like a wounded animal. Peering through the shutter in the door, he squinted into the gloom. There was no moon behind the thick gray clouds, deepening the night so that even the shadows cast shadows. There was unquestionably something out there, but he was not about to go out and investigate. Instead, he checked to make sure the door was barred and the shutters latched before returning to work. 

Something collided with the wall of the hut, making the rushlight swing and the Alchemist jump. Fortunately, he had been doing no more than writing, and a large blot of ink was the only injury suffered. Whatever had hit, it had not been small, and the impact had met with considerable force. Once the squeak of the swinging lamp had subsided, he stood utterly still and listened. A soft moan, and then a whimper filtered through the darkness to his ears. Someone was crying. Cursing to himself, he hunted out a stub of candle and lit it, the better to investigate.

“Hello?” he called, only just leaning out of the door. “Who’s there?”

There was an indistinct groan from the direction of the wood pile. Daring to leave the safety of his doorway, he held the small light aloft to pierce the darkness. A boy lay in a tangle of cloak and underbrush against the side of the house. A deep hood was drawn up over his head, leaves and other debris sticking to the coarse fabric.

“Are you alright?”

The boy looked up, only his mouth and the end of his nose visible beneath the shadow of his cowl. A crooked line of red trickled from the corner of his mouth and one nostril, a wider one ran down his cheek.

“You’re hurt,” he remarked, crouching down the better to inspect the damage. “Here, let me see.”

The boy shied away, raising a hand to fend off the one he offered.

“I won’t hurt you,” the Alchemist promised.

“I’m fine,” the boy husked, voice dry and cracked.

“No, you aren’t. Come on.” Shifting the light to his other hand, he leaned and hooked a hand under the boy’s arm, lifting him to his feet. He swayed and collapsed against him almost at once. Getting an arm around him, the Alchemist dragged him inside.

The boy seemed only partially conscious, his awareness fading in and out as the Alchemist built up the fire and dug out a few extra lights. In the flickering glow of the fire, the boy’s injuries stood out more clearly- knees and elbows glittered red and his clothes were torn and stained as well as sodden. He sat shivering on the bench, head hanging and hands tucked under his arms.

“Here, let me take that and I’ll get you a blanket,” the Alchemist offered, attempting to remove the muddy cloak.

“No!” the boy jerked out of reach, upsetting the bench and tumbling to the floor with a squawk. The sudden motion threw his hood back and the Alchemist couldn’t help his own cry of shock.

“Your _eyes!_ ”

He had none. He might have at one time, but not anymore. It looked as if someone had taken a hatchet to his face, cleaving bone as well as flesh, leaving a deep and jagged trench. The surviving skin had been inexpertly stitched closed with wide sutures, a thick and ugly scar meandering across the bridge of his nose to connect the empty sockets.

“What happened?!”

The boy- well, young man now that he saw his ruined face- curled in on himself, both arms latched tightly across his chest.

“Nothing... I... I tried to buy food in town, but they chased me off...”

Now the initial shock had passed, the Alchemist could appreciate the age of the scars. This was an old wound that had stretched and grown as the smaller man aged. The blood still trickling down the side of his face drew attention to a ragged tear in his scalp, just under his hairline. Cursing himself, the Alchemist went to prod the fire to greater heat and swung the kettle over the stirred flames.

“I’m sorry,” he told him, crouching down and gingerly reaching to touch his guest’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Here.”

With a cloth he carefully dabbed the blood away, revealing white skin under a thick layer of dirt. His guest turned his face away, but submitted to treatment. His knees and elbows were a mass of filth and blood as well, holes torn in both his hose and shirt.

“What’s your name?” the Alchemist asked softly.

“...Richard.”

Although Richard could not see it, the Alchemist smiled. “I’m Marcus. I’m an Alchemist. You’re in my house in the east woods. Well, east of Dingleton, anyway. It’s not a large town and the people can be closed-minded, but they’re usually not too bad.”

This earned him a derisive snort. “They didn’t believe I’d come by the money honestly. Thought I’d stolen it.”

“Stolen?”

“It was only one bit of silver. I dropped it when they attacked me.”

“That’s more money than most people carry around here,” Marcus informed him, looking him over. “Normally you don’t see much above brass farthings.”

“I can’t see at all,” Richard grumbled sounding rather put-upon. Marcus felt his attitude was not unjustified. “It wasn’t much of a coin. It’d been trimmed, I could tell, but they accused me of stealing it.”

“Why do you suppose they thought that?” he asked. “You don’t have to tell me,” he added hastily as Richard turned his face away.

“I earned it,” he insisted stubbornly.

“I’m sure you did,” Marcus assured him. 

There was a long and uncomfortable pause as Marcus dabbed at Richard’s elbows and knees. “You took a beating,” he remarked just to break the silence.

“Well, that’s the other reason they ran me out of town.”

Although Richard could not see it, Marcus raised an eyebrow. Richard did not elaborate, but remained huddled in on himself. Marcus sighed.

“Well, whatever you have or haven’t done, you didn’t deserve this. Here, let me see your hands.”

Richard did not move.

“Let me see your hands,” Marcus repeated with more firmness. “If they’re as bloody as the rest of you, they’ll turn septic if they’re not cleaned.”

The smaller man lifted his head. If he had had eyes, Marcus was half sure they would be welling with tears.

“Promise me first.”

“Promise you what?”

“That you won’t do what the townspeople did. Beat me. Run me off. You don’t have to let me stay, but promise you won’t raise a hand against me.”

There was Magic here, Marcus could sense it, the hairs on his neck and the back of his hands stood on end, tingling with the charge of it, but damned if he could tell the source of the spell. This promise, small as it seemed, would be binding. Not just a pledge, but an oath that would hold him blood and bone to his word. Fear fluttered low in his stomach. It took a few dry swallows but at last he managed:

“I will not raise a hand against you. I promise.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Richard unfolded his arms and drew out his hands. They were indeed black with dirt and congealed blood. He held them cupped before him for a moment, as if cradling a mouthful of water. Stiffly, gingerly, he opened his hands and held them out like a child awaiting a washing inspection. From the center of those bloody palms, a pair of eyes opened and blinked at him.

The shriek, Marcus would later insist, was perfectly justified.

Pure reflex made him jump back. It was simple bad luck that the pile of scrap iron he’d been collecting had been right behind him. The rusted pieces made a fearful racket as they tumbled to the floor. Richard gave his own shout of surprise and curled up upon himself like a tortoise, thrusting his hands back under his arms once more.

Once the clatter had subsided, Marcus picked himself up and went back over to his guest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, letting chagrin tint his words. “I...I wasn’t expecting that. I should have known better, but I’ve never seen one, not up close. I can see now, well... I see. I understand.”

The Seer did not uncurl.

“It’s alright.” Marcus knelt and touched the smaller man’s trembling shoulder. Hesitantly, Richard lifted his head. “I gave you my word, I will not hurt you. I’m not exactly popular in town myself.”

Marcus started for a second time as the Seer suddenly flung his arms around him. He wasn’t crying exactly, he couldn’t without eyes, but the symptoms were very like it. His breath came in ragged gasps, his limbs trembled, his whole being quaking with emotion. Not knowing what else to do, Marcus put his arms around him and held him close, awkwardly patting his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Richard sniffed, rubbing at his nose with a muddy cuff. “It’s been one of those days.”

The lopsided smile he offered triggered a laugh Marcus was powerless to suppress.

“Well, it’s over now, or it will be once you’re asleep. You can borrow something until we’ve had a chance to wash and mend your kit.”

“I can’t pay you... I mean... I lost the money...”

Marcus dismissed this with an unseen wave of his hand as he tried to pull the bedstead into some semblance of order. Perhaps it was a good thing Richard could not see. Marcus’ strengths did not lie in housekeeping.

“Never mind about that. Once you’ve had a chance to clean up properly and had a good night’s sleep, we’ll talk about it.”

There was a clean if rumpled shirt in the clothes chest and he shook it out. It would be about a mile too big for Richard, but it would do well enough for one night. The kettle whistled and he pulled it away from the flames. He’d been in the process of preparing a cup of tea before his guest had wandered head-long into his front door. It did not take long to prepare a second cup of dried herbs before he poured steaming water over both. He filled a bowl for Richard and brought over a clean rag.

“Here,” he said, setting the bowl on the floor in front of him. “Have a wash. It’s just here,” he took Richard’s hands and placed them on the rim. “Mind it’s hot.”

“Thank you...” the words broke, fragmented by the lump in his throat.

Steam rose from the bowl in curls and columns. Richard dipped the rag in but dropped it, his battered fingers stung by the heat and the soap.

“Let me,” Marcus told him, gently taking one hand in his and lightly sponging at the muck. Richard bit his lip and swallowed thickly, crying without tears. Marcus said nothing, concentrating on dabbing his hands clean without poking him in the eyes- which mercifully remained closed. Ye gods it was creepy, but one couldn’t fault a man for what nature had made him. It was no different from a missing limb, he told himself firmly. There was no reason to be embarrassed or repulsed. All the same, he was glad when Richard’s hands were clean and bound with a bit of scrap linen, wrapped in such a way that his eyes remained uncovered.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice still cracked in pieces.

“Take this,” Marcus pressed the shirt into his bandaged hands. “Can you manage on your own?”

Richard nodded. “I can.”

While Richard changed out of his own shredded clothing, Marcus busied himself sawing off a hunk of bread and a thick slab of cheese from his somewhat impoverished larder. Bachelor living was not conducive to gourmet dining, but Richard was thin enough that his collarbones poked through. He didn’t think he’d turn up his nose at food so long as it wasn’t mouldy. Maybe not even then.

“You decent?” he called over his shoulder, a teasing edge to his words. Richard gave an amused snort.

“Well, my ankles show, but other than that, I’m presentable.”

The shirt, as predicted, hung off him like rags off a scarecrow, one bony shoulder half out of the wide collar. Marcus hitched it up and tied the tapes so that it would not slide down and puddle around his ankles. Standing, he was nearly a full head shorter and perhaps a quarter as broad, with a lean and wiry build like an acrobat. Dark hair that had not been cut in some time fell down over his scar; in the back just brushing his shoulders. Marcus took him by the upper arm and led him over to a seat at the table. He hadn’t realized until then that his guest was shivering.

“Here, can’t have you wandering about in your nightgown.” Whipping his banyan from the back of a chair he draped it over Richard’s shoulders. The long dressing gown was heavy; wool on the outside and flannel within. Richard huddled into it gladly.

“I expect you’re hungry.”

“I’d rather have a drink,” Richard told him, swallowing thickly.

“Start with this and I’ll see if I’ve got anything stronger.”

“Is it water?”

“Sort of. It’s tea.”

“That’ll do,” Richard said, showing the first glimpse of a smile. Marcus pushed the mug into his waiting hands and he gulped it down without even testing to see if it was cool enough. He gave a deep sigh once he had drained the cup. One would have thought it was malt beer instead of chamomile.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “I needed that.”

“Is it true then? That Seers are made of sorrow, born of tears?”

Richard snorted again, the lopsided grin returning. “That’s banshees.”

“Oh. Right.” To mask his embarrassment, he scooted the plate of bread and cheese towards his guest. “It’s not much, but I’m afraid it’s the only thing on the menu.”

He watched, fascinated, as Richard’s nostrils flared at the subtle scent of yeast and dairy. The smile it produced was feral, more that of a starving animal than an expression of actual joy. “It’s perfect.”

Marcus said nothing as Richard ate, trying hard to remember his manners and simultaneously bolt the food in as few bites as possible. Rising, Marcus brought the uncut food to the table and sliced off a bit more.

“I have a chicken. We’ll have eggs and porridge in the morning,” he promised. “More tea?”

Richard nodded, mouth too full for a “please”. Obligingly, Marcus refilled both their mugs before sitting again. After his second helping Richard had slowed down enough to taste his food. He sat and chewed meditatively, savoring every bite as if it were the king’s beef instead of black bread and sharp cheese.

“Thank you,” he said at last, sounding dry. Marcus pushed his mug into Richard’s slim fingers. The boy was a bottomless pit.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Color crept up Richard’s neck to nest in his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t mean to be a glutton. It’s been...” He tilted his head toward the ceiling, evidently performing some sort of mental arithmetic. “Three days maybe? I forget.”

“Then by my count you’re still a few meals behind,” Marcus told him, letting his smile color his words. “Have as much as you want.”

“I’m alright now, though I’ll take a drop more tea. Or just water. I’m dry as the lake bed.”

Which was dry indeed. There had long been a superstition concerning Seers and water, though Marcus had never been able to puzzle out exactly what that was. Ask ten different people, you got ten different answers. He’d have to ask Richard once he’d had a chance to recover. He emptied the last of the kettle into Richard’s cup, which, like the bread, he now took his time over.

“I can’t pay you...” he said at length, his words trailing off into awkward silence. “Not with money. The silver... I lost it...”

“There’s no need,” Marcus insisted. “We’ll worry about that in the morning. As for now, you need to rest and so do I. This way.”

Taking the smaller man’s arm, he led him over to the hastily made bedstead. When Richard’s fingers met the soft, saggy mattress, he shied away.

“I’m alright, I’ll sleep in front of the fire.”

Marcus blinked. “Nonsense, you’re ill and injured. You’ll sleep in the bed.”

They went round about on it a few times until Marcus, seeing Richard on the point of tears again, relented on the condition that Richard take the duvet for himself. Wrapped in the down-filled blanket, the Seer curled up in front of the dwindling fire. Marcus stayed up only long enough to shut the bread and cheese back in the cupboard and to make sure the front door was barred and secure. His guest made a rather lumpy silhouette before the fire, and Marcus couldn’t help reflecting on what a strange night it had been before settling down to sleep himself.

For an hour or more he tossed and turned, trying yet failing to find sleep. Perhaps it was having an extra person in the house? He’d never had guests before, preferring his own solitude to the company of others. Turning over, he squinted through the darkness for the hump of blankets that was Richard. Except the dull embers of the banked fire glowed plainly without the roll of man and quilt to block their light. Bolting upright he nearly knocked foreheads with his guest, seated at the foot of the bed.

“Richard!” Marcus gasped, hand over his heart. “Heaven and earth, man! You scared me half to death! Don’t _do_ that!”

“Sorry,” Richard mumbled, hanging his head.

“It’s alright,” Marcus panted, beginning to recover. “What is it?”

“I wanted to repay you.”

The tips of slender fingers found his hand and traveled up his arm, his shoulder, his throat, to his face where they rested against his cheek. Gently, Marcus took the hand in his and held it, being careful of the closed eye in the palm. No doubt Richard had had to use such currency before. Marcus did not want him to feel he owed anything, especially not this.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’ve been so kind,” he whispered, ghosts of words in the darkness. “Don’t you know it’s bad luck to shelter the likes of me?”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Marcus told him firmly.

“Is that why you took me in?” He seemed young in the too-big shirt, his overgrown bangs giving making him look much younger than he truly was. Taking his other hand, Marcus held them in both of his. Richard ducked his head, evidently unsure if he ought to smile or not.

“I took you in because you were injured and hungry,” he said softly, leaning close to brush the hair away from where his eyes should have been. “Anyone would have done the same.”

“No,” Richard’s voice was bitter and hard, “they wouldn’t. You saw yourself.”

“Then...” Marcus paused, collected words and thoughts. With one hand he cupped the smaller man’s cheek, only the barest hint of stubble scratching against his palm. “Because I know what it’s like to be cast out, to be treated badly for being different through no fault of your own.”

This time, Richard’s smile, though sad and fragile, was real. With some hesitation, he leaned forward. Marcus met him in the middle, catching him by the shoulders and gently pushing him back.

“Richard...”

“I’m sorry,” he hurried to apologize, heat rushing into his eyeless face. “I just.. When you said I should sleep up here, but then I thought... I only wanted... I...I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I meant it when I said you don’t owe me anything.”

“But I--!”

Marcus insisted. “You’re hurt and tired and not thinking as clearly as you could be. If I’d have let you go on, it wouldn’t be squaring a debt, it’d be taking advantage. I won’t do that.”

“I don’t understand...” the words were fragile and confused. Unable to help himself, Marcus reached and touched Richard’s face once more.

“I guess you wouldn’t, but I hope that one day you will. Everyone has a right to be treated decently.”

The glass smile returned and Marcus patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, get comfortable.”

“But I thought...?”

“You were half-right,” Marcus assured him, arranging the bedclothes and helping Richard to find the vacant side of the mattress against the wall. “I offered the bed because you’re injured and a guest. I would have made a place for myself. Now that you’re up here, you may as well get settled. Besides, it’s cold.”

“I’m sorry,” Richard repeated, submitting as Marcus drew the blankets around them both. “I misunderstood.”

Since he couldn’t see his smile, Marcus gave Richard’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

“It’s alright, really. If you fancy me that’s one thing, but let’s take it one step at a time, alright? Now do me a favor and get some sleep.”

“...okay.”


	2. Whither Shall I Follow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Into the woods...

_Whither shall I follow, follow, follow  
Whither shall I follow, follow thee?_

 

Marcus woke somewhat later than usual, dawn already tinting the sky pink and gold when he finally opened his eyes. Richard lay half-curled on his side, evidently still dead asleep. At least, Marcus _thought_ he was asleep. It was difficult to tell. His right eye was hidden, fingers curled into a loose fist with the joint of his index finger against his lips. A childish gesture, one that told of insecurity and a boy forced into an adult’s role far too soon. The other hand lay hidden beneath the pillow. Carefully, Marcus lifted a corner. Richard’s fingers curled loosely above the eye as if cradling a jewel. Beneath the closed lid it twitched and darted. If Richard were dreaming, Marcus hoped the dreams were good ones. Brushing a hand over his tousled head, he slid out from under the covers.

The morning was unremarkable aside from the Seer asleep in his bed. Marcus went about his chores as quietly as he could, unwilling to wake his guest if he could avoid it. This was probably the first time in ages that Richard had felt safe enough to truly sleep instead of dozing here and there for a few hours, always with one metaphorical eye open.

He put off breakfast for a few hours, opening the front window enough to complete the previous night’s unfinished entry. Henrietta had left him three eggs, and Bernice the goat seemed a bit surprised to be milked before she even had a chance to complain about it. Afraid the scent of eggs and porridge might pull his guest from sleep too early, Marcus put off cooking and instead heated water for washing. Richard’s ragged things weren’t the only garments in need of a scrub and a boil.

Laundry was generally something he paid to have done. An elderly widow woman in town took in other’s dirty clothes as a way to support herself. Ordinarily, Marcus would have taken his washing to her. However, given Richard’s misadventure with the villagers the previous evening, he felt it might be worth the hassle this one time to simply do it himself. Heating the necessary amount of water and the subsequent soaking and scrubbing kept him outside the better part of two hours. By eight o’ clock the spring sun was just rising above the trees, the laundry was hanging behind the house to dry, and Marcus was famished. Pushing the door open, he blinked and sniffed the air.

“Good, you’re back,” Richard, swathed in the borrowed banyan again, remarked from where he crouched before the fire. “Are these done enough?”

Marcus did not answer right away, too busy staring in disbelief at the single round room of his house. The interior was considerably neater than he’d left it. None of his chemicals or notebooks had been disturbed, but the dishes had been washed and put away, the hearth swept, the bed made, and something in a covered pot simmered quietly over a low fire.

“Well. Now I know how the seven dwarves felt,” he remarked. Richard smiled crookedly and poked at a couple of fried eggs he held in a pan over the coals.

“These should be done,” he repeated, “and I’ve made us some porridge. I’d have set out some spoons but I couldn’t find them.”

“I’ll get them.” Marcus had to think for a moment where he had put the utensils in question. His dining ware was mismatched at best and it took him a moment to locate two spoons of suitable size and condition. He wanted to ask how Richard had managed all this? So far as he knew, Seers were blind to everything but the future. If that were true, how had he cleaned house and put together a meal without being able to see what he was doing? He watched, amazed, as Richard dished food for them both with far more grace than he would have thought possible. However he compensated for his lack of sight, he did it very well.

“Thank you,” he managed. Richard’s expression shifted from rather blank to something that resembled pleased before reverting. Unsure if Richard could feel his eyes on him or not, Marcus took a moment to look him over now that he had light enough to do so.

If anything Richard looked worse now than he had last night. The darkness had hidden just how ugly his injuries truly were. While none were dangerous, the sheer volume was rather impressive. Beneath the bandage his face was swollen, patches of green and purple appearing where the skin had been abused. Both hands were red and raw, though the many cuts and bruises didn’t seem to bother him. The eyes in his palms were hardly visible as he used his hands to eat. With the lids closed, they seemed no more than an oddly-placed crease in his palms.

“Have you done this often?” Marcus asked, having finally settled on something that he hoped wouldn’t sound too insulting.

“Cook breakfast for my board?” he asked, a bitter edge to his sardonic grin. “A few times, yes.”

Which wasn’t at all what he’d meant. Marcus did his best to act as if Richard hadn’t taken the question backwards. “Where did you learn?”

Richard shrugged. “A man’s got to eat. You either figure it out or go hungry.”

“Right,” Marcus remarked, remembering Richard couldn’t hear him nod.

“I’ve always been like this, if that’s what you’re asking,” Richard told him in a tone that was surprisingly casual. “Seers are born, not made. My eyes don’t see the Present, only the Future, sometimes the Past.”

“Do you know how it happened?”

Richard’s expression flickered, but the moment was so brief Marcus could not name the emotion. “Does anyone remember their birth? I don’t. I don’t remember my parents if ever I had any. I don’t know if they were cursed, or if I’m a half-breed, or a Changeling. It’s pure speculation for all of us. We none of us know how we got this way, only that we are.”

“I’m sorry.”

The smaller man only shrugged and went on eating. “I don’t mind you asking. Not many people do. You’re an alchemist. It’s your nature to ask questions.”

“Maybe, but please know I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

The real smile made an appearance for perhaps half a second. “I know, and I appreciate it.”

\--

The setting sun found Marcus paying more attention to Richard than his studies. He sat with his back to the fire, a pair of borrowed breeches cinched around his waist instead of the robe. Although his position cast his hands in shadow, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see what he was doing anyway, which was what fascinated his host. Richard sat patching his kit with needle and thread and the sense of his fingers alone. It wasn’t what anyone would call fine work, but it was certainly better than Marcus could have done himself. Despite his precision with powders and chemicals, he wasn’t much at stitching a button.

“I have to say, I’m impressed,” he said at last, laying down his pen. Richard shrugged, the smile peeking through for a moment.

“Like I said, you learn how to manage. Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I’m an invalid.”

“I never said it did.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t,” Richard mused, biting off the thread. “I shouldn’t be so rude when you’re putting me up.”

“I don’t expect any payment,” Marcus reminded him. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Nothing is free,” Richard fingered one threadbare elbow of his own shirt. “Not even good will. Everything has its price, and one way or the other I pay my debts. I won’t be beholden to anyone.”

“I haven’t asked anything of you, have I?”

“No, not for yourself, which, I must confess, is a bit of a first. Usually most people can’t wait to hear about some future fantasy that will never happen. Then again, there’s a lot of folks who think it’s blasphemous to try to second-guess Fate. ”

Marcus shrugged, knowing Richard couldn’t see it. “Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I don’t believe in things like fate or luck.”

“Is that why you haven’t kicked me out yet?”

“You cleaned my house and cooked for me. I’d say that’s earning your keep if that’s what you feel you have to do. Why on earth is it bad luck to harbor a Seer, anyway?”

“Because we only bring bad news. Bad luck follows us around like a shadow.”

“I should think it would affect you more than anyone who offers you shelter.”

Richard looked up, a twisted little half-smile on his face. It looked as if it hurt.

“Pretty much.”

Turning his face back toward work he could not see, Richard fell silent. The soundless air seemed heavy, weighted with things unsaid. Unsure if he ought to speak, Marcus was on the verge of returning to his books when Richard spoke.

“What do you mean by ‘decent’?”

“Decent?”

“You tell me every time I try to even the score that it’s what any decent person would do. If that’s the case, you’re the first decent person I’ve met.”

Marcus couldn’t decide if he should laugh or not, and so settled for a snort. “I don’t know about that. I’m probably one of the stranger ones, if nothing else. I know a lot about nothing, or at least that’s the general consensus of the locals.”

“You’re not from here?” Richard seemed surprised. Marcus did laugh at this.

“Hells no, I’m just stopping off for a while. I’m experimenting with pyrotechnics and this area’s good for making black powder. I’ll be moving on soon enough.”

Richard had nothing to say to that, so Marcus went on.

“I’m different myself. Most people I meet, they don’t understand what I do, they don’t trust me. I’ve learned the value of kindness and since it doesn’t cost me anything, I give it away whenever I can.”

If Richard could have blinked, Marcus was sure he would have.

“Doesn’t cost you anything?” he echoed, bewildered.

“No, and it’s one of the few ways I can endear myself, not that it matters much. I never stay in one place long enough.”

Richard nodded slowly, rolling the information around in his head.

“I’ve had to pay for everything I’ve ever gotten,” he said quietly. “Everything has its price.”

Stepping closer, Marcus crouched down so that they were nearly eye to eye socket. Reaching, he gathered both of Richard’s hands in his. “Has anyone ever paid _you?_ ”

“Paid _me?_ ” Richard repeated, utterly lost.

“Have they?”

Richard thought for a moment, shook his head. “No.”

“Then by my count, the debt is owed to you, and not the other way around.”

Richard swallowed hard, tilted his head down as if looking at his lap. Marcus squeezed his hands gently and blinked.

“Your hands are wet...”

“Well that’s where my eyes are, aren’t they?” Richard told him rather crossly.

The boy was crying.

“What are you looking at?” he demanded, rubbing his nose on his cuff.

“Nothing,” Marcus told him, lightly dropping a handkerchief into his hands. “Absolutely nothing.”

\--

“What _are_ you doing?”

Richard stood in the doorway, dressed in his repaired clothing, his over-long cloak dangling to his ankles. The garments were still little better than rags, but at least his knees and elbows didn’t stick out.

“I’m leaving,” he said flatly. Marcus blinked.

“Are you?”

“Yes. I know you said I don’t have to pay you back, but I’d like to. So I’m leaving.”

“What?” Marcus was now thoroughly lost.

“I...cheated earlier,” Richard said, his tone that of a child admitting a cookie before supper. “I looked ahead at your house so I could see where everything went. Trouble is, when I looked, it was all on fire.”

“ _Fire?_ ”

“Your house was burning. A band of soldiers will come here looking for me. They’ll burn your house down as an example when they discover you sheltered me.”

“What time?”

Richard tilted his head upwards, trying to remember. Lifting his right hand, he waved it above his head as if greeting an adoring crowd. Marcus couldn’t help jumping as the dark brown eye in its center opened and began to turn this way and that, watching images that Marcus could not see.

“Late. Sunset, I think.”

“Well,” Marcus said, striding decisively toward his bookcase, “we’d better be gone before then, hadn’t we?”

“Wait, what?” It was Richard’s turn to gape.

“If we aren’t here, they’ll have no reason to fire the place. I’ll take the animals to town, and we’ll leave the minute I get back. There’s a pack over there. Fill it with clothes, will you?”

Richard stared a moment more. “I was going to pay you back by not getting your house burnt down. All your work, your research...”

“Can’t burn if it isn’t here,” Marcus replied, stuffing books into a satchel. “All I really need are my notebooks. I have a place I can keep the others until we can return to claim them. If you think I’m going to let you wander off into the woods alone with a troop of angry soldiers on your trail, you are sadly mistaken.”

The smaller man still stood in the same spot, chin dangling slightly in disbelief. “I don’t understand,” he managed at last. “Why are you doing this?”

Marcus crossed the floor to where Richard stood and gently rested his hands on his shoulders. He had no eyes, but Marcus couldn’t help looking into the spaces where they should have been.

“I told you before, it’s what any decent person would do.”

That got him a smile. “Besides that?”

Marcus smiled, leaned forward, and touched the bandaged forehead to his own. “Because I want to. Now come on, help me pack.”

\--

They waited only long enough to sell the animals. Marcus feigned indifference as the hen and goat were sold to the first person who wanted them. It wasn’t so much about the money- he’d let them go for a pittance- but about leaving them in a good home. He did not want them to starve or be eaten themselves alone in their pens. He forced himself to walk back up the trail, away from the village, but broke into a run as soon as the rooftops were out of sight. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he saw Richard still sitting in the goat shed where he’d left him.

“All set?”

It was Richard’s turn to breath a sigh of relief. “I was afraid you’d been caught.”

“Not yet,” Marcus assured him, pulling him to his feet. Two lumpy packs lay on the straw-covered floor. He hefted one onto his own back and helped Richard to shoulder the second. The handle of a broken pitchfork leaned in the corner. On a whim, Marcus grabbed it and pressed it into Richard’s hands.

“Here,” he told him, “just in case. Ready?”

Richard nodded, bangs waving in front of his eyeless face. Even with his hood up, it was too obvious. This wouldn’t do.

“One more thing.” The gash in Richard’s temple had mostly healed over, but he’d left a bandage in place to protect the wound until it fully closed. Carefully, Marcus pulled the bandage lower, down over the thick, black scar so that it covered his face like a blindfold.

“There. Take these too,” he pushed a pair of raveled wool gloves with the fingers cut away into his hands. “If anyone asks, you tell them you were injured in the Ogre Wars, alright?”

“Alright.”

\--

Marcus kept Richard’s hand tucked under his arm as they walked, leading him along as if he were no more than a common blind man. This and the walking stick filled Richard’s gloved hands, his eyes closed and hidden, yet Marcus caught him lifting the hand that held the stick now and again.

“What do you see?” he hazarded.

“I’m not sure,” Richard’s tone seemed to reflect his confusion. “It’s hard to piece together. You can’t ever see anything about yourself, so I’m trying to follow you. The only problem is...we’re together. So I’m having trouble.”

“Well, if you see anything besides a way to avoid those soldiers you saw the other day, I’m not interested. I don’t want to know how my story ends.”

If Richard could have blinked, Marcus was sure he would have. He turned his eyeless face toward him, bafflement written in every line.

“You don’t?”

“No, of course not. Who wants to know the end of a book before they’ve begun reading? It ruins the surprise, robs you of your motivation to turn the page. Every truly good story has an ending that you didn’t expect, a last minute twist. Maybe it isn’t a happy ending, or perhaps it is happy, but not in the way you expected. No, I prefer not to know. I’d like to think I’m writing my own story, page by page, day by day.”

Richard looked at him for a moment longer before turning to face ahead again. For a long time silenced stretched around them, only the crunch of leaves underfoot and the odd animal providing ambiance.

“Perhaps that’s the trick,” Richard said at last, his voice hardly louder than their footsteps. “Not asking. Ignoring the Seer...”

“Not ignoring,” Marcus said kindly. “Not the Seer, anyway, just the gift.”

“It isn’t a gift, it’s a curse. One I don’t want and didn’t ask for.”

“Does it really bother you so much?”

“All I ever have to tell people is bad news. The Future is made up of people’s lives- hopes, dreams, good decisions and bad. It’s all a hopeless tangle of interconnected pieces like a tavern puzzle. You can’t move one piece without shifting the others. Everyone wants to hear that they’ll get everything they ever wanted, that they’ll live happily ever after, but it doesn’t work like that. There are good stories out there, yes, but for every good one, there are hundreds that are sad.”

He pressed his lips together and swallowed thickly, making Marcus wonder if he were choking back tears.

“No story is wholly sad, just as it is not wholly happy,” Marcus commented. “Life is made up of good and bad, and every story worth telling has to have some conflict in it.”

“Maybe,” Richard said, and his voice sounded hollow and guarded again, “but there’s such a thing as overdoing it.”

Marcus patted his hand and was rewarded with a brief squeeze of his arm. Suddenly Richard’s head jerked up and he dropped the walking stick. He raised his hand high in the air as if hailing a friend. On the verge of asking him what he saw, Marcus instead had to lunge to steady the smaller man as he jumped in fright. Behind them, an ear splitting whistle pierced the air followed by a bang that shook the earth beneath their feet. A plume of black smoke billowed over the leafless canopy, above which glittered a fountain of sparks and light.

“That’ll be the cottage,” Marcus remarked offhandedly, as if commenting on the weather. “We’d best get off the road.”

Plunging into the woods he pulled Richard behind him by the hand like a two-man game of crack-the-whip.

“What did you do?” Richard panted, trying to work in laughter between his labored breaths. Marcus too couldn’t help grinning as he ran.

“Moved all my stores into the house. If they were fools enough to set fire to the home of an alchemist, then they deserve what they got. Besides, it’ll buy us some time.”

Richard made no further reply than a short bark of a laugh, conserving the rest of his breath for running. He seemed determined to keep pace, struggling only slightly on his shorter legs. Even when the ground began to slope steadily upward, he did not drag on Marcus’ hand. Both men were breathless by the time Marcus abruptly stopped, Richard just missing plowing into him by bare inches.

“Where are we?” he gasped at length, following as Marcus pulled him down into a cool, damp space that echoed.

“Mind your head,” Marcus managed, still gasping. “This’s a cave I use to collect ingredients for saltpeter. I hope you’re not afraid of bats.”

“Anything that eats mosquitoes is a friend of mine.” Yet his grip on Marcus’ hand tightened as he led them deeper into the cave.

“How far back does this go?”

“I’ve no idea,” Marcus answered honestly. “Pretty far, I should think. I’ve never gone any further than I needed to.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out...” Richard muttered to himself with a shudder.

“It’s almost straight for a dozen yards before it makes a sharp turn to the left. After that, we lose the daylight. We should be able to hide here until they’ve gone.”

For the first time, Marcus felt a tug on his arm as he moved forward, but Richard hung back.

“What is it?”

“I’m not big on subterranea,” Richard mumbled, unwilling to go deeper into the cave.

“There’s no trolls or ogres in here, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Marcus told him kindly. “Come on, I’ve got plenty of rush lights and candles. We’ll be alright.”

“Marcus, I’m blind,” Richard reminded him. “It’s not the lack of light, it’s...” he trailed off. “Nevermind.”

“Tell me?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. I just don’t like knowing I’ve got an entire mountain balancing above my head.”

The excuse sounded half-true, so Marcus let it go. At present he was too busy fumbling to light the lantern he’d brought. So far as he knew, the cave wasn’t deep, but they’d have to go back as far as they could in order to escape notice. The room where he collected the bat guano for black powder was the size of a large closet, with a strangely high ceiling and a step-down floor that was usually inches deep in manure. It stank abominably, and since he needed no chemicals, they avoided the narrow bend that led off the main tunnel. The grip on his hand tightened, as did Richard’s breathing.

“What is it?” Richard had not lifted his hands that he could see, but if he had seen a new development, it would be helpful to know.

“Nothing,” he repeated. “I just...” The words broke off in a swallow and a shudder.

“You’re claustrophobic,” Marcus observed with mild surprise.

“What?”

“It’s a fear of enclosed spaces.”

Richard thought a moment. “I guess so.”

“I’m sorry. I only thought it would be a good place to hide.”

“It is. I’m just being a baby. Don’t mind me.”

“I do mind.” Stopping a moment, Marcus released his hand the better to put an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. “We won’t stay here for long, I promise.”

Richard gave him a mournful look and snugged an arm around Marcus’ waist, hiding his face in his shoulder. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

A crash and a loud shout made both men start, heads snapping toward the entrance.

“That’ll be our armed guard,” Marcus muttered, grabbing Richard’s hand and pulling him deeper into the cave. “We need to stay ahead of them or our light will give us away.”

The twists and turns and slippery gravel floor of the narrow passage were not conducive to running. One small mercy was that the soldiers behind them could not come more than one or two at a time. Already the light of their torches crept along the passage behind them, casting frightful red stripes on the slick walls.

“Hurry,” Marcus grunted, trying hard to quicken his steps. The tunnel widened abruptly and before either man could give a shout, the ground gave way. The straight plunge down slanted to a sharp, slick embankment of loose gravel and cold stone. A heavy tangle of cloaks and packs, they tumbled to the bottom with a crash.

\--

A light peered down into the darkness, reflected off of swords and shields.

“What was that?”

“Down here!”

“That ain’t the Seer.”

The body sprawled at the bottom of the embankment was thick and sturdy with wavy ginger hair. Tangled with a pack and shoulder bag, he lay with arm and legs cast at odd angles, cloak spread over him like a blanket. It was impossible to tell if he were alive or dead.

“Shall I go down and see to him, sir?”

“Nah, leave ‘em be. Spread out and find the Seer if you can. The locals say this hole ain’t all that big.”

“Sir.”

\--

Richard could barely breathe, he certainly couldn’t move. Marcus’ weight pressed down on him like a bag of wet grain. His head was still ringing despite the protection of one of Marcus’ big hands when the soldiers trooped away, taking the light with them. That hardly mattered. Darkness didn’t make any difference to a blind man. Richard had never been afraid of the dark, but cold, damp, echoey places like the cave made his stomach knot and his skin creep. Now Marcus might be dead or hurt. No, not dead. He was breathing, though no amount of shaking could rouse him. Cursing through clenched teeth, Richard tried in vain to push, roll, tug and drag the larger man in any direction but he was simply too heavy. Not knowing what else to do, he pushed his palms to his face and cried.

He had never looked in this direction. In, not Out. As ever the Future told him nothing of his own life, but his eyes looked straight through his skull and behind him. Light rushed up a passage- low but wide- that wound back and forth like the path of some enormous snake but steadily upwards. The light was not bright and golden like the light of day, nor the red and orange of torch flame, but cool and blue like a midnight lake. At the far end of the luminous blue tunnel, stood a figure that held out its arms- though whether in welcome or assault, he could not be sure.

The vision cut, leaving him in blackness again. To keep from drowning in the darkness, he reached and touched Marcus’ warm shoulder. He was still alive, and if he wanted to keep him that way, he would have to brave the emptiness alone and find some help. It was there, he just had to reach it. Taking a deep breath, he shakily got to his feet. The stick Marcus had given him clattered between his ankles and tripped him, sending him sprawling to the cave floor again. It took a moment to recover his breath and his footing, but he managed. Taking the stick in hand, he blundered forward, praying that the vision had been of the immediate future, and not months from now.


	3. Bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grudging help is better than none at all.

_If you go out in the woods today you’re in for a big surprise  
If you go out in the woods today, you’d better go in disguise…_

 

Giants were not as dead as everyone liked to think. As a culture they were all but extinct, but as a people, still very much alive. True, a handful still dwelled in their castle in the clouds, but far more lived on the ground below. They did not live in seclusion or exile, but among the very people who had once sought to destroy them. A giant’s most distinguishing feature was his height. How then was one to identify a Giant when he stood eye-to-eye with the average man?

As in the past, they owed their livelihood to a simple plant- not a bean, but a mushroom. A rare spore from another world, carefully preserved and cultivated in dark, dank passages belowground. One side made you grow taller, the other side made you grow smaller. Although from the same cap, once separated they took on different names. The spotted half they nick-named “Shrinking Shrooms”, the plain they called “Humongous Fungus”. It was, of course, the Shrinking Shrooms that allowed them to live in open hiding among their hated enemy.

To a practised eye, a Giant settlement could be easily discerned from any other. First, there would be lush fields and thick orchards in places where such things usually refused to grow: high mountains sides where the soil was poor and mostly rock. This rocky land usually housed the other great giveaway: a cave. A cavern, natural or otherwise, was needed to cultivate the magic mushrooms that would keep the Giants small enough to pass as human. Without one of these caves somewhere nearby, the charade would be ruined and their surviving civilization destroyed.

Giants were not savage by nature. They were farmers, keepers of the land with large families. Perhaps it was this peace-loving nature that had helped to bring about their end despite their enormous size in comparison to the tiny yet brutal humans. Although the Giant families were no longer known for their height, they were still known for the strength and their produce, and their crops were soon seized along with their sons to be pressed into service in the royal army. Not wanting to be forced into extinction by only slightly more legitimate methods, the Giants retreated further still, and hid both their treasures where only they could find them.

Alexei’s family had been farmers for many years. His parents, and grandparents, and even his great-grandparents had farmed the western slopes of the Seven Mountains in relative peace for as long as he could remember. His great-grandmother had been a young girl during the massacre of his people, escaping with her mother to the land below the clouds. A Giantess, even an infant one, would have been dreadfully obvious if not for the magic mushrooms. The story of how the miraculous fungus had come into their possession was a carefully guarded secret, almost as sacred as the caves themselves. Nearly of age, Alexei looked forward to the day when he would be told the full story of his people’s survival.

Then, of course, came the Ogre Wars.

\--

Of all the things Alex had intended to become, a veteran was not one of them. However, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hide alone in the wilderness, guarding the family secret. There were times he wished he could stop taking his medicine and grow enormously tall, enough to drive away the soldiers that would pressgang his friends and terrorize his sisters. But that would give them all away, and cause the poisoned swords to be raised again. It seemed a cowardly way to fight, by poisoning a blade. One would think that a man over fifty feet tall would be immune to most anything, but dragon saliva was the deadliest substance on earth. Not even a full-sized Giant could survive it. And none of them were full-sized. Not anymore.

There had been rumors of troops roaming the mountainside, soldiers recruiting unwitting men for the latest installment of the Ogre wars. Granted Ogres were a menace, but if one left them alone in their swamps and caves, they usually invited no trouble. Typical humans, stirring up trouble when none was wanted. Alex wished the humans would leave his people alone. They were bothering no one in their mountain village, content to ignore and be ignored by the rest of the world. Humans, however, seemed determined to make life difficult for the surviving Giants, whether they realized it or not. For this reason he crouched inside the mushroom cavern, hiding from the king’s army and wishing for the thousandth time that magic beans still existed.

The clans had taken to hiding their sons along with their treasured mushrooms that one might guard the other. The soldiers had no reason to be poking about in cliffside crevices, but if they did, one man standing in the narrow space of a cave mouth might drive them away. It was Alex’s turn to keep watch, a job that was at once immensely important and agonizingly boring. One could only fuss over the mushrooms or stare out over the rocky scrub of the mountain for so long. He hated to sit still at the best of times. Guard duty was truly a test of his patience. Nothing had ever happened during his watch, which made him jump all the more at the sudden noise from the _inside_ of the cave.

Alex had anticipated trouble to come from the front of the cave, never the rear. So far as anyone knew, the cave wound away deep down into the mountain and did not surface anywhere else. Arming himself with a lit torch and a sharpened pitchfork (and a vague sense of irony), Alex crept past the faintly glowing fungus toward the rear of the cave.

Mushrooms grew in great profusion along the walls in shallow ledges like flowers in a window box. They liked the cool and the damp and the darkness. The fungus gave off its own soft light, blue and luminous as a new moon, but they only went back so far. The farther back he went, the tunnel became low and narrow, and the air heavy and stagnant. Not even snakes and bats lived so far away from the daylight. With only the orange light from the torch to illuminate the dark passage, Alex stood still and listened. Yes. There it was again, a scrabbling and crunching on the loose gravel floor. It was probably just a lost animal looking for a way out, or at least he hoped so. He didn’t see what else it could be. And then he did.

A human shape loomed in the depths of the tunnel, a deeper shade of black in an already lightless dark.

“Who’s there?” Alex demanded, his voice making the stalactites ring. The figure cringed at the noise, stopping to cower before straightening again. It did not move, but called out in a small, frightened voice:

“Hello?”

The voice was male, but sounded young, though perhaps that was just fear.

“Who are you?” Alex bellowed, letting his volume do his intimidating for him. “How did you get in here?”

“M-my name is Richard,” the figure stammered. “I... We fell down a hole. My friend, Marcus, he protected me. He’s been knocked out. I can’t lift him. Please, will you help me? I can’t pay you, not with money, but if I can do anything you have only to name it. Please.”

Alex couldn’t help but blink at this strange speech. From the way the boy talked, it sounded as if the cave had a secondary opening somewhere else, but so far as he knew, it was only passable in one direction. He would have to investigate this.

“Step forward, show yourself.”

Hesitantly, the boy shuffled closer. With one hand he trailed the wall, with the other he scraped the floor in front of him with a staff.

“Drop your weapon!”

The staff abruptly clattered to the floor. Without the stick, the boy held his free hand out in front of him. Perhaps the torch light dazzled him and he could not see where he was going? He groped his way forward until he was just out of arm’s reach. He wasn’t tall, not by any stretch, not even as high as Alex’s shoulder. He was lean too, hardly any meat to his bones. A cloak that was at least a size too big hid most of his body, only his nose and chin visible beneath a voluminous hood.

“I said show yourself.”

The boy tilted his head up slightly, seeming confused.

“Put your hood back so I can see your face.”

“I’d rather not..”

“Put it back or I’ll do it for you,” Alex warned. Shrinking back a bit, the boy reluctantly reached and pulled back the hood. Then it was Alex’s turn to take a step back. A thick white bandage wound over the boy’s eyes like a blindfold.

“What happened to you?”

“Blinded in the Ogre wars,” was the flat response. “Please, will you help me?”

Alex considered him, knowing, _feeling_ that something was amiss, yet unable to put his finger on what. This could be a trap, but it could also be an honest request for help. If nothing else, it would be useful to know where this second entrance was located. They needed no one stumbling into their village- much less their mushroom crop- via an unknown backdoor. The odds seemed entirely too unlikely that a blind man should have found his way here, even with a companion.

“Who are you really,” he asked, voice rumbling in his throat like boulders down a mountainside. “What’s your business?”

“We didn’t mean to trespass,” the boy insisted, holding up both hands in surrender. “We’ve been chased here by the king’s men.”

“In that case you can turn right around and go back where you came from,” Alex told him curtly. “My people are peace-loving. We have no wish to be involved a pointless war that’s only killing people and solving nothing.”

“I heartily agree,” the interloper said with a nod. “Which is why we ran. I know you don’t care for humans in general and soldiers in particular. I don’t blame you. As a rule, I’m not over-fond of them myself.”

Alex blinked and swallowed hard on a lump in his throat that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “What are you talking about?”

“Humans can be savage, selfish creatures,” the blind man said. “They only want what you can give them, with no thought of the consequences. They’ve treated us badly because of petty greed or imagined wrongs. Many of my kind have died by their hands as well.”

“What do you mean ‘your kind’?” Alex’s words were choked, barely escaping his constricted throat.

“You needn’t lie to me. I can see what you are.”

“You can’t see anything.”

“I see more than you think,” Taking a deep breath, the smaller man pulled off the blindfold and then one fingerless glove. He held up the bare hand from which a single brown eye blinked at him. Alex could not swallow his gasp. “You see, I’m not human either.”

“I know you have no reason to help us, Sasha Alexei, son of Sergei, but you have every reason to get us out of here. If you will help us, you’ll know where the second entrance to the tunnel is, and you’ll be able to seal it up. I promise you, we have no wish to cause trouble.”

For a long moment Alex stood silent, trying hard to make sense of the strange speech. He had heard that Seers frequently spoke in riddles, and being forewarned did not make it any easier to understand.

“Tell me, Seer, have you foreseen me helping you and your friend?”

He shook his head. “I only saw you extend a hand. I had hoped it would be in friendship.”

A rueful smile spreading across his face, Alex put the pitchfork down. “Let it never be said that a Giant was first to draw steel. I will help you, but only to get you out of this cave and out of my village.”

“I ask no more than that.”

Mindful of the eye, Alex took the Seer’s hand and shook. “Deal.”

\--

After the second hour had gone by, and the torch was more than half-burnt, it occurred to Alex that he might have planned this a little better. Darkness would not bother a blind man, but the possibility of wandering in a cave without light did not appeal to him.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Richard answered, his tone making an apology of the response. Alex only hoped they would reach their destination before the torch gave out, though that would not help them on the return trip. Still, he reflected, it couldn’t be _that_ far. Richard had walked without aid, or food, or water the whole distance. It couldn’t be too much longer now.

Richard led the way- such as he could- one hand trailing the wall, the other stretched out before him. Although the gloves hid them, Alex was sure the misplaced brown eyes were open and watching. A sudden stab of pain in the hand that held the torch made him jump. The flames had eaten down to the last few inches of wood, scorching his fingers. The charred stump clattered to the floor, plunging them into darkness. Instinctively, Alex reached and laid hold of the nearest thing he could find- in this case, Richard’s shoulder.

“It’s alright,” the Seer assured him. “We’re nearly there.”

“Are you sure?”

“As much as I ever am.”

With little other choice, Alex fell into step with the smaller man, checking his pace a bit so as not to tread on his heels. The shuffle and crunch of their footsteps seemed magnified a hundredfold, every drop and drip from overhead making him start. He had never considered himself cowardly, the dark of the woods and fields had never frightened him, but this was different. How did badgers and foxes and rabbits manage to live in their underground warrens and dens? After several hundred lifetimes, Richard stopped short, the shoulder under Alex’s hand abruptly disappearing.

“Marcus! Marcus, wake up!”

Shuffling, scuffling, and an indistinct groan percolated the darkness. Richard scrabbled madly for a moment. Tinder spark lit the cavern like a firework and suddenly there was light. The meager flame from the tallow candle seemed as bright as a lighthouse beacon after the oppressive blackness. On the floor lay a thickset man with untidy ginger hair and dressed in a long coat that seemed to be made up entirely of bulging pockets. Although he breathed, it was not in sleep. He’d been knocked senseless. Richard knelt beside him, trying to wake him but without success.

“You carry the lantern,” Alex instructed, stooping to scoop the unconscious trespasser from the floor. “I’ll carry him.”

“Thank you.” The weight of gratitude in those two syllables made Alex wince.

\--

The way back was twice as cramped with an unconscious alchemist and several pounds of books slung over his shoulders, but Alex and the Seer made it to the mouth of the cave in time to see the moon emerge from a bank of clouds. A procession of concerned family members met them, having come to see what had become of the sentry.

“What is this?” A woman with a stern face and a spotless apron demanded, scowling in the torchlight.

“They got lost,” Alex told her, back cramping a bit after having had to walk hunched over for so long. The man himself wasn’t all that heavy, but the cave ceiling was low and Alex was tall, even for one masquerading as a human. “Apparently the cave touches surface a couple of miles back.”

“We’ll have to seal it,” the woman agreed. “Who are they- or ‘what’ might be a better question.”

Richard, blindfold dangling from around his neck, tugged his hood down farther over his face and stepped back into the protection of Alex’s shadow.

“That one knows, but this one doesn’t,” he hefted the senseless man on his shoulders.

“Knows?” the woman echoed, growing suddenly pale in the orange light.

“Show them,” Alex commanded. Reluctantly, Richard drew his hood back to expose his eyeless face. There was a collective gasp from Alex’s relatives.

“I will keep your secret,” he promised. “I swear it.”

“You’d better,” the woman growled in a tone remarkably like Alex’s.

\--

He couldn’t be dead. If he was, he doubted he’d be in so much pain. Someone had at least thought to lay him on his side, off the knot on the back of his head. Attempting to open his eyes could not be done without both a grimace and a groan. Almost at once, he felt slender fingers touch his face.

“Marcus?”

He knew that voice. The events of the last few hours hit him like kick from a mule and he started fully awake, jerking upright. He fell back almost at once, a much smaller body interceding between him and the mattress.

“Easy,” Richard told him as the world settled again. “We got away, but you were knocked senseless. Alex brought you to his house. His family isn’t too thrilled, but they’ll put us up for one night. Then we’ve got to go.”

“Wait, what? Marcus asked, still trying to get his thoughts in order. Panic seized his stomach. “Where’s your blindfold?”

“It’s better to go naked here,” Richard said with a smirk. Marcus rolled his eyes at his friend’s twisted humor, noticing that his gloves were gone as well. “They have no great love of humans, it’s actually safer for both of us if they know what I am.”

“You lost me.”

Richard cocked his head for a moment and held up one hand. Marcus knew by now that this meant he was looking ahead- though by how much he could only guess. Lowering his hand, Richard leaned in close, the words breathed in his ear: “They’re Giants.”

“Giants?” Marcus blinked.

“A little louder, please,” Richard groused. “Do you _want_ them to chase us out of town with torches and pitchforks? Because it can be arranged.”

“What are _Giants_ doing down here? I thought they’d all been killed?”

Richard shrugged. “That’s what we’re meant to believe.”

“How do you know?”

Even without eyes, Richard managed to give him a look that said ‘seriously?’

“Okay, point taken.” Marcus rubbed gingerly at the knot on the back of his skull. Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he thought. Richard- for the twenty-four hours he’d known him- had been shy and a smart-alek by turns. This take-charge attitude was not something he’d seen before. It was a ridiculous assumption, but because his eyes were not in his head, Marcus kept having to remind himself that Richard was not, in fact, helpless. He’d managed this long on his own, hadn’t he?

“Thanks for saving my skin- and all my books,” he told him, rummaging in the various packs to make sure everything was still there.

“I don’t suppose you have any money in there,” Richard remarked.

“Not much, why?”

“They’re going to expect something in return.”

Marcus gave a heavy sigh. “I want to be a good guest too, but you’re starting to sound a little obsessed with this payback thing.”

“You should be too,” Richard grumbled. “I am not classified as human to them, you are, and according to Giants, humans are all the same. You’re a descendant of the people who tried to massacre their ancestors. We can’t impose like this and expect them to let us go out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“Well, then, what do you suggest.”

The crooked smile pulling at one half of Richard’s mangled face made the hair of Marcus’ neck stand on end.

“I have an idea.”

\--

Perhaps it was the knowledge that these people were truly Giants that only made him feel shorter, but Marcus had trouble convincing himself. They were tall, on the upper edge of human height, most of them men pushing into the seven foot range, many of the women over six foot. Even the children seemed big, most of the teenagers a head taller than himself. Wiry Richard seemed dwarfed by comparison, and Marcus caught himself wondering just how old he really was? There was only the vaguest sort of lore regarding Seers, and he couldn’t bring to mind anything that mentioned their aging process or lifespan. He did know that the latter was generally not very long, most of them dying violent deaths for one reason or another.

The table they sat at with Alex’s family was enormous- both long and high. The tips of Marcus’ shoes only just touched the packed earth floor, Richard’s feet dangling several inches higher. Giants, like so many agrarian people, had enormous families- both in size and number, apparently. There had to be at least twenty people besides himself crowded together in the family hall. He counted three gray heads, at least eight younger adults (five men including the one who’d saved them, and three women), and what felt like an absurd number of children ranging in age from teenagers down to an infant in arms. Almost all of them bore the same curly golden hair and clear blue eyes.

The grownups talked quietly among themselves, mostly about grain and fruit and the conditions of the fields and the probability of the weather. Marcus and Richard said nothing, eating in silence what was given to them. It was not until the dishes had been cleared and the children ushered off to bed that the family elders addressed them.

“What business do a Seer and an Alchemist have in these mountains?”

Marcus assumed this to be the grandfather of the clan, the family head. He opened his mouth to speak, but beneath the table, Richard laid a hand on his leg.

“I apologize for disrupting the peace of your community,” Richard began, “and we thank you for your food and shelter.”

Marcus was beginning to think he’d done this before.

“You are welcome,” the grandfather told them, though his tone implied the opposite.

“I would like to repay you for your kindness.”

“Indeed?” the old man raised one bushy gray eyebrow. “What need have I of foreign gifts?”

“Plenty,” Richard said, the sick grin returning. “I have seen soldiers coming.”

“After you no doubt,” the words were growled.

“Most likely,” Richard agreed, “but I know how you can get rid of them in such a way that no blood will be shed, and they’ll be unlikely to bother you again.”

The gray eyebrows climbed high into the creased forehead. Alex, Marcus noticed, was looking at them with less suspicion and more curiosity than his relatives.

“Can you indeed?”

“Yes. Or rather, Marcus can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave up watching the show around the beginning of Season 3, as it was getting increasingly silly.
> 
> So far as I could tell, there were three separate Ogre Wars, each at least one generation (20yrs or so) apart. I am not at all sure which one Marcus is referring to, but it definitely isn't the first.


End file.
